We needed to get away. The walls of the Portland Orbit office were closing in causing irritability. “Corona-fatigue” had us begging for new scenery. The coast beckoned. A stay at a golf resort in Gearhart, it’s by the sea, was secured. We set out for a different climate.

I wasn’t particular. I knew nothing about Gearhart and less about golf. Going away on short notice meant we couldn’t be picky. I meant to pack my putter, a donation from my brother-in-law, so I could hit the practice putting green but I left it behind perched on an old bean bag chair in the garage. This lapse would haunt me during our stay.

There was the dog factor. We couldn’t leave him behind so the hotel had to be pet friendly. Our teen-aged pup would need help navigating the world outside his pandemic bubble. A waiver from the hotel meant we had to keep him under constant surveillance.

Before leaving we learned that this was the fourth incarnation of this hotel. Two others had burned down with the third version having been razed in 1972. The hotel’s best feature was the photographs lining the hallways, historic evidence that people partied in the early 60’s, a innocent time before the psychedelics kicked in. There were costumed golf tourney participants parading and bashing in the New Year. I was pleased to see King Neptune making the scene. This made for a nonsensical, amusing diversion. If only I could have found an old timer and gotten the lowdown which proved impossible in the days of social distancing.

In the room, a piece of golf art stared out at us. Not that I didn’t like this newly discovered subculture, but the lady golfers, who I later realized were wearing strange hats, made me a bit uncomfortable at the thought of their watching us in the room. The hotel was a bounty of golf art. I wasn’t about to knock on doors to see other examples but I liked our piece. I was glad we weren’t stuck with a painting of someone playing golf. I couldn’t have handled artistic license being taken with golf form. Searching for information on the artist, I discovered there were too many with the last name Yoder, a good reason for artists to include a first and last name on their art.

A book in the room offered the history of the area revealing renown chef James Beard to be a Gearhart resident. He dug the area’s razor clams. Skimming through book gave me an idea of what we’d encounter if we left the room. I got excited about an old reptile museum only to learn that it too had burned down. Later we found ourselves sitting in a park overlooking a bluff that bordered the ocean. I notice one bench had the name of the woman who spearheaded the park’s creation. She’s been dead since 1975 but I felt a connected to her through her past efforts.

We wandered past some people playing pickle ball on a tennis court, ironic because it’s tennis-like on a smaller scale played with paddles. Minutes later we reached Gearhart’s tiny downtown, a block of about ten business with Real Estate being the main industry. The pandemic seemed to hit a couple of shops hard closing them for the duration. the gourmet coffee shop was just closed on Mondays, the day we visited. It was quiet and quaint inspiring us to go back to the hotel.

So what does anyone do with time on their hands that they can’t do at home? You have to face throwing out the routine. A hotel on a golf course offers free live golf for the viewing. There were walks on a beach that allowed vehicles and there was plenty of time to consider what we would be eating next.

If I hadn’t been on vacation with an opportunity to sleep in, I might have considered getting up at dawn to look for Elk. They love Gearhart and the area is proud of them. Signs, literally and otherwise, from the looks of their cow pie like droppings, are evident. Signs near the entrances to the beach read, “Welcome to Gearhart: Where Elk Might Be Your Neighbor.” I make assumptions about Elk crowding the beach for early morning swims. The sign lists tips on coexisting with Elk, something I’ve done my entire life by avoiding them especially on a camping trip during Elk hunting season. Staying out of their way was a good excuse to sleep later. The sign warned against not getting in the middle of a herd which is exactly what I would have done.

The best thing to do at the hotel proved to be taking advantage of their bike loan program. It made for a nice afternoon ride offering a different perspective of beach houses with wooden clad siding. I tried to imagine what it might have felt like to experience the usual wind and drizzle despite it being a sunny summer day. On our return, I realized the previous day I had hallucinated and seen two submarines. That day, as we were nearing the seashore, I saw submarines surfacing. Pillars formed a loading zone. A low tide allowed people to walk out to board the vessels. I convinced myself this was real because when I looked away then looked back I could still see it. On the bikes that next day I looked over and realized what I had actually seen were chimneys on the roof of the condo building. 

As I put this post to bed it occurs to me that this account of a brief vacation is about as dry as a typical Oregon summer day. It’s all I can muster under my current circumstances. Stick around if you have any interest in art cars. There will be plenty of that in the next few posts. I take pride that even in the mundane I mange to bring the world views of elk backsides, golf art and a hallucination tale. “Corona-fatigue” is raging against my summeritis. I’m doing all I can to battle back. The antidote to Gearhart’s quiet shimmer was a side trip to Seaside for a dinner of oysters and fish and chips. While keeping an eye on the world outside the restaurant window, I was offered a slice of touristy humanity as people ambled past the t-shirt shops carrying double scoop ice cream cones. The view of the man riding on a multi-person pedal car while carrying his infant in a babybjorn was a vision I’ll cherish from this summer. I’m not sure how any of them held on when they took that sharp turn off of North Columbia Street. I was completely distracted by Grandma Herzberg’s giant pizza pretzel poster which looked to be held on by blue painter’s tape. It’s the best I could do knowing I could never digest one. In the end I found out it does a person good to bug out, go anywhere for any length of time. An effort should be made to absorb even a tiny bit of history if only because it makes you feel like a slightly more interesting person.  

 

*****

At this point it should be glaringly obvious that the hotel has remained nameless. Due to the circumstances that made our stay unpleasurable, I decided not to give them any publicity. 

 

One January morning walking around my SW neighborhood for reasons better left unsaid I headed up the unfinished gravel road. There’s a rut so bad cars can’t pass through without risking axel damage. At the top of this “street,” the empty lot behind a chain link fence beckoned. I wandered up the driveway towards a pile of concrete slabs and turned to look at the pit. It was wide, and deep, ten feet would be an exaggeration but it struck me as a good sized hole. At the bottom were kitchen cabinets and a wire shelving unit. I was shocked to see two throw pillows also tossed in the mud. The sight complimented my bleak mood.

After photographing the pit I created a black and white image that I posted on Instagram. I called it, “The Pit of Despair.” The dump site that emerged grated on me but the pit put things in perspective. No matter how low things get pits of despair will be there exhaling their misery and exposing their void. I tried imagining the house that may have filled that space before it crumbled and was carted away. Now this giant divot would never be anything more than a pit or an opportunistic junk refuge. Dirt wouldn’t retain water to make a swimming hole.

As I write this, January ticks into the next month. Thoughts I had never considered have grown into a February philosophy. It started with a Portland Monthly article I read in an emergency room waiting room. I spent hours there wondering if things would be okay while finding out February was not the month I thought it was. Yes there’s Valentines Day but that has its misery and President’s Day is a holiday spent wondering what you’re supposed to be celebrating. I discovered February’s wintery discontent of grime, gray and grind.

Rich Reese helped me recognize there’s a February Survival Philosophy. It’s all in the article but despite any possible positive moments during this month, it’s still a dreaded time. We have to be grateful it ends early. It could have been those feelings of being stuck in an emergency room when I encountered thoughts that added to the gravitas. Reece’s advice boiled down to enduring the nastiness and not making hasty, irrational decisions as a result and not letting the season make you snappy. Consider that someone’s funk can be rooted in their own brand of “Februaryitis.” It’s nothing personal. Maybe they haven’t done the same soul searching that would bring them to the wisdom of Rich Reece.

In the middle this deep thinking, I came across an article from a copy of a magazine called Yoga Journal that I found in a Multnomah Village recycling bin. The article recommended people find a place to center themselves offering examples like sitting on a rock in nature. I know what you’re thinking, the Portland Orbit has resorted to writing second rate Yoga Journal style articles to boost circulation. Regardless, I like this idea but I prefer one sacred spot. I had a place where I sought refuge a long time ago, a giant tree on the edge of a golf course. It was a place of calm when life got heavy. Last summer I painted a picture at a Larry Yes Free Painting Event downtown. From my imagination, a psychedelic tree on the edge of a field emerged, it could have been a subconscious nod to this place I’d known. Sure your spot should bring tranquility. My Pit of Despair is the opposite but if I don’t find myself at the bottom of it, I’m doing all right and it merits repeated visits.

Every day doesn’t have to be a battle but February can exacerbate feelings of living in survival mode. Last year I instituted a February tradition that I hope to continue provided I make it through the month. I celebrated the month’s end by buying a pair of cheap dress shoes, shoes I’d have no problem letting get beat up. After a year they are scuffed, torn and frayed. They reflect the kind of year its been. Chinese tariffs could kill this tradition or its death could come from my disinterest in shopping. I have yet to find a name for my pretend holiday. I just know the end of the month is worth celebrating. Please consider this public service announcement. Take “Februaritis” seriously and reward yourself if you can hang on until March.

To keep up with our east coast Orbit rival, I find myself having to work holidays. Today it’s all love to everyone. Whether you’re spending an arm or a leg on a prix fixe meal at a fancy restaurant or cooking something amazing at home, I hope it’s the best Valentine’s Day meal you ever had and whether you’re gouging yourself with chocolate or hanging around the grocery store waiting for candy to be marked down 50%, well again it’s sounds like you’re experiencing Valentine’s Day at an optimal level. Enjoy!

Seasons greetings and Happy Valentine’s Day from the Portland Orbit. Hope you make it a day of fun, love and calories.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The best advise for ringing in the new year came from this sleepwear I spotted that said, “Let’s drink Champagne & dance on the table.” With the exception of partying with Charli XCX and One Direction, I couldn’t imagine a better way to have celebrated the crossover from 2014 to 2015. Have a great new year!

Seasons greeting from the Portland Orbit.  Even bloggers need a Christmas break so we’re planning to be back in the new year with even more discoveries to share.  Until then, enjoy the holidays and many thanks for reading!